


Cenotaph

by idler



Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 16:39:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20261212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idler/pseuds/idler
Summary: Not all monuments are made of stone.





	Cenotaph

**Author's Note:**

> Written as an epilogue to _Run Aground_, though familiarity with the background is entirely unnecessary.

Originally posted to [](https://aos-challenge.livejournal.com/profile)[**aos_challenge**](https://aos-challenge.livejournal.com/)

Cenotaph

His head drooped, his eyelids closing as sleep edged ever closer, dragging his thoughts down and away from this duty, this burden…

Rear Admiral Lord Hornblower irritably shook himself awake, furious at the weakness which allowed fatigue to overtake him and doubly vexed by the tolerant expression currently displayed upon the round countenance of his clerk. Obviously—and to his utter disgust—he had sat nodding like an old man in his dotage as the clerk waited patiently, pen poised above paper, for him to wake and continue this interminable correspondence.

_‘Damned heat’_ he cursed inwardly. Despite the bright swath of open windows the great cabin was a veritable oven, as stifling and oppressively airless as any of the lower decks. The squadron sat sweltering at anchor in the shadow of Gibralter, impatiently enduring the drudgery of the final stages of provisioning. Provisioning which, seemingly, was being conducted under his very nose if one were to judge from the racket and coarse shouts drifting through the open windows, rendering any attempt at sustained concentration an exasperating challenge.

Hornblower fought down the urge to pluck at his sodden and wilted neckcloth; it was quite inexcusable for an admiral to display such a human and ordinary frailty. However, he thought crossly, capricious and perplexing behaviour was entirely expected of an admiral, and as such he might well indulge in it.

“That will be sufficient, Rogers, I shall call you when I want you.” He rose abruptly and stalked out of the cabin, leaving the astonished clerk staring at the all-but-completed missive left to languish on the desktop.

On deck, the relentless sun’s glare was blinding after the relative shadow of the cabin, and the heat assaulted him like the hot breath of a blacksmith’s forge. Hornblower squinted aloft to where his broad pendant hung limply from the mizzen; his hope for even the faintest of breezes had been in vain. He did note, however, that an awning had been rigged on the quarterdeck and gratefully accepted its shade, though it provided little relief from the insidious heat.

The raucous commotion of provisioning was even more insistent out here in the open. He strode to the rail and readily located the cause of the clamor which had so recently disturbed his concentration: a small brig rode at anchor nearly in the flagship’s shadow, so close that he found himself glowering directly down upon her bustling deck.

To the untutored observer, it would have seemed a scene of utter chaos. The small vessel was surrounded by a swarm of heavily-laden bumboats, each jockeying for position as they impatiently awaited the opportunity to come alongside and discharge their burdens. From those already fortunate enough to have claimed an unoccupied bit of hull, a seemingly endless stream of casks flowed inboard to be received and stowed by small knots of sweating sailors, all bare to the waist and looking for all the world as if they had been recently hauled dripping from the sea.

In their midst stood the source of the incessant shouting: not a bos’n, as Hornblower had supposed from both tone and vocabulary, but a young officer clad in worn breeches and working jacket so battered that his rank was quite indistinguishable. An officer, clearly, nonetheless: he stood like a rock amid the currents of activity that swirled and eddied about him, barking curses and orders, orchestrating the human tide with a gruff efficiency.

As Hornblower stood and watched, his irritation subsided and instead he found himself oddly moved, entirely unable to look away. Something about the officer was familiar, though he was quite certain he had never seen the man before. Nor could he recall a resemblance to any particular officer with whom he had served: fair-haired and dark-eyed, this man was tall and slim, and was possessed of an undeniable elegance despite his rough speech. Even the weathered uniform was worn with a precision entirely consistent with the meticulous and mathematical regularity of the old-fashioned, tightly wrapped queue that emerged stiffly from beneath his faded bicorne.

Intrigued, Hornblower struggled with memory almost recalled; a ghostly memory, as transparent and insubstantial as the shadow the young man cast, impossible to grasp yet strangely heartening. The odd sense of recognition was not to be explained but fascinated him nonetheless, and thus he continued to bask in its strange sense of comfort, allowing his thoughts to wander.

Too soon, Hornblower was awakened from this pleasant reverie by the sound of a step beside him; he looked up—with a profound feeling of regret—to find his flag captain settling beside him at the rail. They both watched the tableau in silence for a space.

“Seems a bit of a tartar, eh?”

“Ha--h’mm,” Hornblower grunted noncommittally. His flag captain was substantially more garrulous than he preferred, a fact he wished he had discovered sooner rather than later; he now knew better than to venture even the slightest of idle comments. It would only encourage the man.

Captain Benchley, however, was not to be dissuaded by his admiral’s reticence. “ S’pose not, though, sir…..crew’s mostly volunteer, I’m told. Rare enough, these days. Most of ‘em asked for transfer to go with him when he was given _Audacious_.” He grinned up at Hornblower, his florid face open and cheerful. “Can’t be said about too many newly-minted commanders.”

Hornblower sighed. The man’s attempts at conversation were relentless, and he longed for the old days of more taciturn captains: men who kept their own counsel and felt no overriding compulsion to fill the air with undue chatter.

The sigh was quite lost on Benchley, as Hornblower had known it would be, and the man continued undeterred. “Aye, he was First under Dawes in _Thunderer_ these past few years. Had a bit of a late start, they say, but he’s done well enough after all.” Benchley nodded sagely as if to confirm his own words. “Well enough that Admiral Kenyon saw fit to promote him and send him to us.”

Dawes? Hornblower considered, wracking his brain, ignoring Benchley, for the most part. _Dawes?_ Not familiar, precisely; there was something, though…

Benchley fell uncharacteristically silent for a space, almost reflective, though his jovial enthusiasm quickly returned in force. “In fact, you may recall hearing of him, sir. He served under an old friend of yours, I believe…Bush, God bless ‘im.”

Hornblower stared, pale and speechless, Benchley wholly forgotten. _Bush_. Dear God, it was Bush. Watching this man was like watching Bush all over again, despite the dissimilar appearance. The same confident stance, the same authoritative quality—and impressive volume—of voice, and the same shielded grins from the men as they turned, unquestioning, to obey.

Small wonder he had found the man so familiar. And, he realized, it was equally understandable that the sense of recognition had insisted upon remaining formless and vague until conjured into substance by Benchley’s words. He had found it impossible to conceive of a world without Bush in it and thus had learned, through long practice, that it was simply easier not to think of him at all, as if he had never been.

Benchley nattered on, oblivious to Hornblower’s sudden pallor. “Fanshawe, his name is, sir…Ev Fanshawe. Commander, now, but he was a lieutenant with Bush a few years ago, rousting out smugglers in Cornwall. You must have heard some tall tales about that, sir—I’ve heard there was much to tell.” Benchley’s grin widened as pleasant memories stirred, and warmed him. “Oh, lord ……old Bush could spin a yarn like none other….’specially when the hours were small and the bottle was empty, if you catch my drift. Aye, I recall it well—we served together on _Goliath_, you know, sir—many an evening we spent yarnin’ in the wardroom. God's teeth, the tales he’d tell. Surely, after Cornwall, he must’ve told you some good'uns.”

Benchley was grinning like a banshee, doubtless eagerly anticipating an evening spent in the sharing of tales of an old and lost shipmate, summoning his presence, if only for a moment; it pleased Hornblower, perversely, to turn the man’s pleasure to disappointment. “No,” he snapped sharply. “Bush never spoke of it.”

The bitter frost in Hornblower’s tone was not lost on Benchley, and the man—wisely—took his leave, removing himself to a respectful distance. Hornblower permitted it, never hearing a word. His thoughts still echoed his own response: _‘Bush never spoke of it.’_

_Because…because I had never asked._ Unthinkable, now, but then it had seemed unimportant. The pain of loss returned in strength, and he vividly recalled the images of that night, images kept long—and forcibly—submerged. Those final words, that last handclasp…..he had never considered it might be so. Bush had been so constant, so dependable: it was utterly inconceivable that such a man could vanish into nothingness without a trace.

But Bush was indeed long gone, and there had been nothing left. Hornblower stared down at the cluttered deck of _Audacious_, seeing none of it, until a familiar bellow penetrated the mists. He studied the young man below him, and recalled Benchley’s open face, lit with obvious pleasure at the mere mention of Bush’s name. Perhaps he had been mistaken, all these years. There _was_ something left, after all.

Hornblower turned to his flag captain and somehow mustered a thin smile. “Captain Benchley,” he called.

“Sir?” The man eyed him warily, still stung by his admiral’s abrupt reproof.

“Dine with me this evening, Captain, and have Commander Fanshawe join us. And tell my steward to set out the fine port I had been saving.” Hornblower smiled again, this time without effort. “I believe you both have some tales to tell.”

********

_What you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone monuments, but what is woven into the lives of others._

Pericles


End file.
